


Siuil A Ruin

by kittydesade



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 14:55:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittydesade/pseuds/kittydesade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"<i>I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel<br/>I'll sell my only spinning wheel<br/>To buy my love a sword of steel<br/>Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán</i>"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Siuil A Ruin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Delwyn (DelwynCole)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DelwynCole/gifts).



> Filling in some of the gaps on the history of Rumpelstiltskin they told us. The title is from a traditional Irish song, gender-reversed for the purposes of the story. The warning for graphic violence is because of the memories of the Ogre Wars, which are pretty gruesome.

A fortnight after her son was born, her husband returned home from the wars. Not the way she had expected.

They rolled him out of the cart as they passed by on their way to the inn. Supply cart, not the medical wagon. He screamed as he hit the ground, a sound she never wanted to hear again in her life, the sound of bones broken and jutting through the skin. Everyone came out to stare. She didn't know who she hated more, the soldiers for doing that to him in the public square or the people, her friends and neighbors, for staring.

But with Morag's help they got him into the house and onto the bed, and she could see even before that what was wrong. "They didn't even set it," she hissed. "Fetch the..."

Morag was gone already. They'd had their babes one after the other, Morag a month or two before her, and they both knew the way to the healer's hut blindfolded and half dead. So now it was up to her to make her husband as comfortable as she could, and find out what else was wrong beyond the shattered leg. She couldn't tell if he recognized her beyond the pain.

"Shhh..." Smoothing the hair back from his face, plastered with sweat and grime from the road. "You're home now, you're safe. It's all right."

His eyes cleared somewhat; his mouth moved, but he still couldn't speak. Too frightened, she'd never seen him look so terrified in her life, terrifying her with his intensity. She tried to pull him closer, but when she pulled him up against her and her arm closed around his back he cried out again. Their boy stirred in his cradle, crying out, too. Not the welcome home she'd wanted for either of them.

"Right, what's..." he'd looked up at the sound, at least that was a distraction while she peeled away his shirt. Dark as the fabric was, she'd assumed it was damp from sweat from the pain of his leg.

He looked over at the cradle, and now the room was quiet again, now that no one was screaming or crying. She moved around behind him on the bed, slowly and with some awkward bending of still-sore limbs, to lift his shirt. Not only was it damp, it was also crusted over, and he hissed some as she peeled it away from his skin. The damp was blood from broken wounds and she slapped her hand over her mouth to keep from shouting when she saw it.

"After..."

Her head jerked up. Words from his mouth, that was better at least, wasn't it? One word, and then nothing. She crawled back out from between him and the wall and came around, kneeling in front of the bed. "After...?" Taking one of his hands in both of hers. He was injured in too many places.

"They overran us. They swarmed over us like..." His fingers clenched around hers, painfully tight. "They didn't stop. We couldn't hold them back. They didn't stop, they trampled us. And where they stopped, they _chewed_..."

No, she didn't want to hear anymore. She rose up on her knees and kissed his cheek, petted his hair and hugged him as gently as she could, mindful of his back and leg. By now the healer was in, Morag trailing behind him, and it was a mess of trying to get him in a position where he wouldn't aggravate any of his injuries.

"They ..." She closed her eyes, swallowed her fury. "They lashed him, too. Here..." one hand brushing over his back, barely touching the fabric of his shirt.

"We'll tend to that next," the healer said, not looking up. "This is bad, this should have been set days ago."

"I know..." she glanced quickly at him, not sure how he would take it. Not that he was listening. His eyes looked through the walls of their home and out to the battlefield again, and she didn't know how to bring him back from that. Later, that was a problem for later, after his leg and back were healed. "Just do the best you can."

The healer gave her a skeptical look. Wondering about payment, she supposed.

"I'll manage, just do the best you can," she snapped.

Morag disappeared sometime in there. With no one else to hold their baby boy while the healer set her husband's leg as best as could be done, she had to pick up the child and hold him and comfort him, she couldn't do for both. The poor babe didn't know what was happening, though she wasn't sure her husband did either. Insensible. Their screaming was enough to drive her insensible, until at least some of it faded when he passed out from the pain. The healer left shortly after, and she had a moment or two to breathe and figure out how she was going to get him into a position for sleep without hurting him. Gently, she tucked their boy back into his cradle and pulled it over to the bed. No sleep for her tonight.

His words chased her into her dreams by the time she'd figured out that putting him on his side and holding his arms around her to keep him there was best. _When they stopped, they chewed..._

What in all the worlds had _happened?_

  


  


  


"We had no chance."

The welts had almost healed, enough for him to be able to dress and go outside a bit, wrapped in their only blanket. The healer came by once more to change the bandages and fix the splint to his leg proper, and she'd traded him what of her weavings they could spare. She was still the pride of their tiny Weaver's Guild, she could command a decent price for her weavings if she had time to go to a larger market to sell them. As it was, the healer didn't complain further about the cost.

She sat with him, carding out wool, their bitty boy wrapped to her chest and sleeping. "I thought this was supposed to be the final push? I thought ..." She shifted the weight on her lap, babe and cards. "I thought the Duke had that sorted."

He snorted, something that sounded like a laugh but wasn't. "So did the Duke. Or maybe he didn't, I don't know. We were meant to think that. That we had a chance. But we didn't."

She didn't ask about the details of the battle, itself. Not after the nightmares, the twitching and the writhing. Things he said in his sleep that haunted her waking hours, the chewing, walking on corpses, a great big ogre foot crushing a man's head like walking over berries. When he was properly awake he claimed not to remember and she didn't press him. No one else did, either. With the screams that came from the house now, between setting the leg and his nightmares, no one came around much anymore. She couldn't find the energy to care about that.

Her hand covered his forearm, slid down and laced her fingers through his. "It's over now, for you. If not the Duke, then someone will find a way. And if we have to..." They'd go further inland. Take refuge somewhere else. She didn't know how, but. "We'll find a way."

He squeezed her hand and gave her a look that was more water than smile. Her throat constricted around whatever reassurances she could think of next. "I hope so," he whispered. Her heart clenched, painfully tight and stone-heavy.

"We will. If ..."

Horses saved her from having to force words out. Well-bred, well-fed horses charging up the way no one in the village used their plow-horses; she heard the jingle of tack and armor before they even came around the bend. Half the village scurried indoors, knowing the sound as well, but neither of them were in shape or position to move fast. She switched her cards to one hand and put the other arm around his shoulders, giving him a place to huddle to.

The soldiers looked around; all those who hadn't been quick enough to hide indoors were now frozen in the act of flight, pretending they hadn't been about to flee the lawful pronouncements of their Duke.

"That one," their commander nodded; Morag's husband. She clamped her jaw shut on the cry of sympathy or outrage. "And that one, and..." The commander's eyes laid on her and her man, and his splinted leg. "A veteran. Good. We'll be back in a month for the rest, you can join us again then."

Her fingers dug into his shoulder. Any cries of fear or outrage were lost in Morag's wailing, regardless, and Gwyn's. Her boy was old enough now to be taken off to the wars, and the chaos swirled by them as the soldiers pulled young men onto their horses, loaded them into the wagons. Even some of the young women who weren't obviously wed or pregnant. She felt his hot, damp breath against her shoulder where he hid his face under her hair. It should have been a warning to all of them; he'd been out there, he knew.

It went on and on. Noise, clatter, people shouting orders, people shouting curses. Her fingers curled tight around the wood handles of her cards, sweat making her palm slick. Her heartbeat sounded loud in her ears, and she could feel every hot puff of breath he made on her neck. Rapid breaths, and shallow. She could imagine what he was thinking and she couldn't imagine how bad it was, lying on the battlefield with your leg crushed and unable to move, playing dead the only option while the enemy crunched the bones of your comrades. No, now she wanted it over with, too. The soldiers loaded everyone into the carts and then they were gone and she could breathe again.

For a moment, at least. Morag stared at them. "You," she pointed, her voice thick and choked. "You, this is _your_ fault."

"Morag..." she warned, feeling their baby stir, heaving herself up from the bench to put herself between her former friend and her husband. "I know what you're thinking, but you'll be wanting to go back, now, go back and tend to your baby girl..."

"By my _self_?" she shrieked. "Without a father for her? Because your craven husband couldn't pick up a sword, couldn't hold a line and ..." Morag had to stop long enough to duck the wool cards that went flying at her head.

"You shut your mouth," she shouted. "You shut your mouth before I shut it for you. You've no idea what you're saying. You don't know..." the door clattered shut behind her. He'd scampered back inside, which didn't appear good to the rest of the villagers who'd come out to see what the new shouting was about, not that she could blame him. And, damn them all, she had to waddle forward now to pick up her cards and take them back in again. "You pick up a sword and you go out there and fight on the lines before you dare accuse my husband of cowardice. You go see what it's like, then you come back here and tell me you wouldn't have done the same."

"I wouldn't have turn tail and ran," Morag spit back. "And left my fellows for dead."

"Well, now's your chance to tell them that," she flung her arm out in the direction the soldiers had gone. "Go on, catch them up. They're probably just around the corner. Go on, tell them you're ready to pick up a sword and slay ogre armies. Big strong ox like you, bet you'll have it all cleaned up by suppertime. Then you can come back and be the brave, noble soldier who saved us all." Silence echoed. Everyone stared. She tasted the tears running into her mouth and couldn't bring herself to care. "No? No one? Then you all keep your filthy mouths shut..."

And there should have been a witty finish to that, except there was a clatter and a cry from inside her house and she had to go and make sure he hadn't fallen over anything too dire, nor broken himself again.

  


  


  


They stayed indoors, after that. Or if they went out it was behind their home and into the woods with the sheep and into the garden to gather food. She took yarn to the market to sell, yarn was easier than full weavings, quicker, and they needed food. Couldn't trust on the good will of the village any longer.

At least, now that he was able to sit up and put his back to a chair, he could help a little. Could card and tease the wool, prepare the herbs and mordants for dyeing, or if she was at work he could hold their boy and keep him soothed while she stirred the dye pot over the fire. Those were some of the best times, the few times she saw him smile, looking at their baby boy with something other than pain and terror in his eyes.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here," he told her once, looking up with a small, sad smile.

She came over and hugged him, one arm, other hand holding the dripping fibers far out of the way. "You were. In spirit." She kissed his scraggly hair. It was good enough that she had him back now, though the prospect of him being loaded into one of those carts again, that frightened her. Tore at the back of her mind while she spun and prepared yarn for dyeing, that she'd gotten him back again only to lose him. He couldn't survive another battle.

Up onto the rack, and then tying a weight to it to stretch it out and set the twist. He laid their boy back into his cradle, hobbled on over to her. "They'll be b--"

"Use the stick, that's what it's there for," she interrupted, keeping her eyes on her work. Yes they'd be back for him in another week, a fortnight at best. No, she didn't want to talk about it. Or think about it. Or anything else. "We could hide you away. I could tell them you'd taken infection and died..."

He pulled her in close with the arm not leaning on the stick, and she could feel the head-shake with his face nuzzling into her hair. "They wouldn't believe that. They'd come looking for me." And what they'd do when they did, well, that didn't bear thinking on, either.

Though she couldn't seem to stop thinking. "I can't let you go again, I can't, I'd die, I'll die first," she pressed her face against his shoulder, shaking. Or maybe he was shaking, or maybe they both were. The only saving grace here was that they still carried on in voices low enough not to wake the baby.

"What choice do we have?"

She balled up her free hand into a fist and thumped it against his shoulder. "Don't you say that. Don't you _ever_ say that. We have choices. We do, we must. We just have to, to find them." Though she didn't know where from. Somewhere around here there was a choice. Something they could do to make it better, to change it.

"We have a week," he murmured. "It's enough."

"No. No, it's not. A year wouldn't be enough. Ten years..." She didn't know. Fingers curling into the rough fabric of his shirt. "It's not enough. And I won't let you go back. Not again. I won't."

"There's nothing you can do..." And the rest of it was lost in the first bout of sobs as it finally hit her, what she was losing. Would lose, had lost, all of this. The wiry strength of his arms around her, the warm and sharp scent of him surrounding her as they huddled together in bed. Another set of hands to help around the house, she could have that if she took in one of the fostered girls or moved in with Morag, as her former friend had suggested, once. This went beyond that, this was looking over and seeing him bent over the loom with a needle and a piece of fine thread, brow furrowed in concentration and a few strands of hair caught in the corner of his mouth. This was losing the strength of his hands over hers as they washed fiber in the copper basins.

Her fingers dug into his shoulders. She couldn't imagine it, and wanted to stop trying. "I'll find a way. You won't go back to the front lines, I won't let you." And then he kissed her, to keep her from saying more, and it helped some. A little bit, for a little while.

But they had nothing to offer instead of service, they had little enough as it was and even less now that she'd paid the healer for what limited healing he could offer. And the Duke's men would demand that someone go serve to war, and somewhere in panic of the middle of the night it occurred to her that if it couldn't be him, perhaps they could offer someone else's sword-arm. And at least he would be safe.

Sword and armor didn't come cheap. Whatever they'd provided him hadn't been enough, but she could take her yarn weas'l and the smaller wheel to the market in the next town, trade it for coin to give to the blacksmith. She'd wait and take on the wagon when they came in a week, and somehow she'd convince them to take her in his place. Better a whole woman than a lamed and still-healing man, right?

He still had the lines of tension and worry, fear or pain in his face even when he was asleep. She propped herself up on one elbow and watched, combing his hair through her fingers, the backs of her fingers over his cheek. He'd stand no chance, but she might yet make it through and come back, and it wouldn't be so bad. Or so long. Not half so long as a lifetime without him. It was that thought that decided her, and she settled back in against him to try and catch a little sleep before the day came, one day closer to the soldiers' return.

  


  


  


He couldn't comprehend it. Didn't understand it. Her things were gone from their tiny house, making it look bigger and far more empty, and it felt wrong. There was a wrongness in it. An emptiness.

No, he knew what they said, why she'd really done it, and he knew what she'd wrote and every time he thought about the few words she'd left his chest tightened and the room blurred with tears, so he tried not to think about it. There was wool to comb and card, to clean, to spin and dye and he had to make what living he could to take care of their boy, now. She'd be back, she'd said. She'd be back after her term of service was over, and then they'd be free of the war.

That thought slipped further and further away as the weeks passed. Months. Their baby boy, named for the Baelfires that had burned at his meager naming ceremony a year later, he grew fast. Big and strong, eager to please and care for his Papa where he could, though he tried not to burden the boy too much with it. Or with the nightmares that came after the fire had been banked and everything was put to bed, nightmares of her body on the battlefield, ogres gnawing and crushing the way they did. She said she'd be back, and she wasn't. And he knew what that meant even without word from the front lines.

The village retreated from the two of them. He barely felt it. He wrapped himself in their tiny farm and in caring for his son, with his mother's eyes and earnest stare. When Bae was old enough he managed to tell, just once, about his mother's bravery and how she'd fought for them and died for it. Beyond that there was too much loss, too much emptiness without anything but nightmares and more blood in the sky to fill it.

And then the soldiers came again.


End file.
